“Hi, I’m Nate and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Nate,” sang the choir.
“Well, to tell the truth I’m not sure I’m an alcoholic, but even if I am I don’t think AA can do me much good. Sorry to have to say that … I wish it were otherwise.”
How’s that for honesty, and a little diplomacy thrown in? Truthfully, I wanted to say more, maybe something equally candid but more incisive. Yet nothing came to mind so I returned to my seat amid thundering silence. As long as I was being courteous, I joined the others in the Serenity Prayer, and even remained for refreshments. Honestly, though, I had an ulterior motive for this decision, in that now I could tell anyone who asked, like one of those pushy women, that I’d been to two whole meetings, including the social hour afterward.
I was sipping lukewarm coffee when a guy with meek eyes and a sickly pallor came up to me and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Steve.”
I waited for the rest before recalling this part of the evening was strictly social.
“I admire your honesty,” he said. “Um …”
“Nate,” I reminded him.
“I had a hard time too at first. Most of us did.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes. When you’re a drunk it’s difficult to give up drinking, which I guess figures. Some never do stop, and alcohol ends up killing them.”
I recognized a good scare tactic when I heard one, so all I said was, “Is that so?”
“Yes. Their liver rots or their heart gives out or they get in a car crash, or something else bad happens to them.” I had nothing to say to that so Steve went on yammering. “I’ve been sober for three years now, but before that I slipped twice and I’m not sure I’m out of the woods yet.”
“Why? I mean, why aren’t you sure?” About that I was genuinely curious.
“It’s just … I’m tempted all the time, you know? When I get stressed or upset or something.”
“Even after three years?”
“Even.” Steve’s eyes grew sad. “I had a friend, he’d been sober for twice that … I mean for six whole years. One night he went out to dinner with some people from work and ordered a beer, then he drank the whole bottle without even realizing it. Sounds crazy, I know, but that’s what he told me.”
And drunks never lied.
“He get back on the wagon?” I asked.
“For a short time after. But a few months later he went on a bender and crashed into another car on the Lodge … killed himself and the other driver, an 18-year-old kid. I got depressed after I found out but didn’t drink over it.”
Actually Steve looked like he could use a pick-me-upper. So despondent had he become, in fact, that he left right after telling his story. Before departing, though, he offered one last piece of advice: “Keep coming back, Nate. It works.”
Right. Wasn’t his friend living proof of this verity?
No, wait. His friend was dead.
Anyway, I was about to pour myself some more coffee when another bundle of joy sidled up to me.
“You need to stop dicking around,” Merv said.
If there was a hello in there, I missed it.
“Dicking around?”
“Yup, that’s what I said. You’re here again because you know your life’s out of whack and your drinking has something to do with it, but you won’t admit you’re a drunk because that would be demeaning. Some call this denial. I call it dicking around.”
Speaking of dickheads, this one had talked to me once before, and briefly at that, yet he knew everything about me—who I was, what I felt, and why I did what I did it.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said.
“I know everything I need to know about you, but okay, have it your way. I don’t know anything about you. Except that you need help or you wouldn’t be here. And yet even if you admitted you were a drunk you wouldn’t join AA, because that would be beneath you. Sooner or later, though, you’ll come around. Probably when you hit bottom.”
Now I was confused.
“I thought you said I wouldn’t be back until I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Which is it, that or what you just said?”
“Probably both. But hitting bottom is usually the straw that breaks denial’s back.”
I ignored the klutzy metaphor because I was more interested in what he’d said than in how he’d said it. Several speakers used the term “hitting bottom” but I still wasn’t sure what it meant. So I took a chance and asked.
“It’s as low as you’re willing to go before seeking help,” Merv said. “And that ‘low’ varies from one person to another. It could be getting fired, or losing a family, or plowing into a guardrail, or waking up in the gutter. But whatever it is for any particular person, it drives them into recovery. And unlike a hangover, the memory, as well as the pain, doesn’t fade. Keeps them coming back.”
A truck’s ugly headlights and Rachel’s lovely face flashed before me.
“You’ve hit something haven’t you?” Merv said.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
I told him, careful to include every unpleasant detail.
“That was close,” he said. “but apparently not close enough. Because here you are, still dicking around.”
“Yes, here I am. And here I go. Any other pearls of wisdom before I leave?”
I don’t know why I asked him that. I think he brought out the masochist in me.
“Yeah, one other thing,” Merv said. “When you finally do hit bottom and get serious about recovery, you’ll want … no, knowing you, you’ll need … a sponsor.”
“You volunteering?”
Anyone know why I asked him that? I sure don’t.
“Not a chance,” he said.
Now that, I admit, surprised me.
So I asked, “Why not? I mean, you know everything there is to know about staying sober. And you do sponsor people, right?”
“I do,” Merv said. “Helps keep me from drinking. But I don’t sponsor just anyone.” His hand swept the room. “Some sponsors do, and that’s okay. But I discriminate.”
“And brag about it.”
“That’s not a boast, it’s a fact.”
I couldn’t resist. “So why discriminate against me?”
“Because I don’t sponsor bright boys.”
“Say again?”
“Bright boys. They have the hardest time in recovery because they’re drunk on their own intelligence. They love to analyze things and poke holes in them. They’d rather feel superior than be happy or sober. I’m no psychologist, but if you ask me they’re nuts. And I only deal with drunks, not crazy people.”
Okay, that did it. I was nuts—I’ve already confessed that—but I wasn’t crazy enough to keep listening to this psycho-twaddle.
Yet before I could head for the exit Merv just kept going. “Here’s another thing about bright boys,” he said. “Some of them like to play dumb or humble. They know if they go around acting superior to other people, they’ll eventually get poked in the eye. So they develop an aw-shucks routine that supposedly helps them survive. But as long as deep down they think they’re above other people … that they’re the highest power … the lower they’ll sink and the more they’ll drink. Call it Merv’s Law.”
Or Merv’s bullshit, which is what I called his theory.
And still he wasn’t through.
“You know which bright boys are the biggest lushes?” he asked.
No, but I suspected I’d soon find out.
“Writers. I mean, think about it. Poe, Joyce, London, Chandler, O. Henry, Fitzgerald, Hemingway and the acerbic Miss Parker. All of them, hopeless drunks.”
I could almost hear the question before he asked it.
“You a writer by some chance?”
I should have just walked away and let things end right there, hanging in midair. But instead I did something crazy. I answered him.
“Well, what of it?”
At least
I made him laugh. In fact, I left him in stitches.
Chapter 82
I thought about what Merv said at that feckuckteh AA meeting and decided, once again, that he was full of it. I was not a booze-soaked writer like Jack London, Scott Fitzgerald or Ernest Hemingway. True, I drank a lot, as I’ve readily admitted, but I didn’t consume liquor by the gallon like those authors. Plus, I wasn’t a bright boy. My entire screwed-up life disproved that theory.
It goes without saying that those writers and I differed in one other respect, but I’ll state it for the record. I lacked even a particle of their talent.
Yet after acknowledging these things I had to ask myself if I was being phony, meaning faux humble. Maybe. I definitely was no London, Fitzgerald or Hemingway, but perhaps I qualified as fairly bright. I wasn’t sure. Christ, thanks to Merv, that schmuck, I no longer knew if I was animal, vegetable or mineral.
The only thing I did know for sure in the weeks following my second, and last, AA meeting was that my savings were dwindling, and I desperately needed a job. And yet I couldn’t summon the energy to look for one. I got tired merely thinking about the gauntlet: researching potential employers, revising and distributing my resume, filling out applications, making follow-up phone calls, and enduring tedious interviews like the one I’d had with Doppler—that is, if I were lucky enough to get an interview.
Assuming I wanted a reporter’s job, I’d have to jump yet another hurdle. A prospective employer was almost certain to check with the Gazette regarding my performance, and the odds of Doppler saying anything positive about it were a million to one. And if by some chance I did get an interview, my interrogator would surely ask why I’d left my former employer, which would force me to lie or remain jobless.
I said assuming I wanted another reporter’s job, but let’s say, just for the hell of it, I was willing to settle for menial work and write in my spare time, perhaps getting started on that long-delayed novel. In that case I might not have to worry about someone contacting the Gazette, since my newspaper responsibilities would be unrelated to the job for which I was applying. I could even list Harry Mendelson and my old drugstore boss, Alan Sampson, as references. The only flaw in this plan was that the prospect of washing dishes, flipping burgers or waiting on tables appealed to me about as much as attending an AA meeting.
So I was back to seeking newspaper work and, concomitantly, overcoming the aforementioned barriers. But how did I get off my ass and finally start searching? That was the question, or at least one of them. I tried recalling what finally motivated me the last time I’d sat on my butt for weeks on end, during that period of lassitude following my discharge from the Navy. After a few moments’ reflection I remembered. I’d gone a-drinking. So that’s what I had to do now, right?
You say wrong, but hear me out. Thanks to my fears and anxiety, I was wound too tight—I think you’ll agree with that. So I needed to un-wind before negotiating the obstacle course or I’d never get through it. And what better way to loosen up than by having a few drinks? In a sense, my career depended on it.
See my reasoning?
#
Feeling nostalgic as well as uptight, I chose The Cottonpicker to relax in. I’d considered asking Wonderman to join me, but vetoed the idea because he’d already declined several of my invitations this year, citing pressing business engagements and, more recently, wedding preparations, since he and Doreen had finally set a date (next February). My point is, I didn’t want to hear him demur again.
I might mention here that Sheldon, too, had been inaccessible of late. Not only was he immersed in Dandy Randy’s, he spent his limited amount of free time on family outings, like a trip to Bob-Lo Island or a day at Edgewater Park. So on top of everything else, I had no available friends in my life.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. I also had no available women in my life. Not that one had been there for any length of time before Jane Bartolo, but once I began dating her I got used to female companionship, to say nothing of regular sex, and didn’t want to give either of them up.
I was so desperate I called Miss Bartolo a couple of weeks ago just to see if she was still dating that guy from church. Hell, not only was she dating Mr. Sensitive, she’d agreed to marry him. You heard right. The gentleman had popped the question and she’d eagerly said yes. So right when I thought my morale couldn’t sink any lower, Jane proved me wrong.
Yet my spirits weren’t through nosediving. I’d hoped that Rachel Solomon and I could eventually pick up where we’d left off, despite our arm’s-length parting after our amorous night together. But apparently that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, if at all. Rachel called me last week because, she said, she had an exclusive. The Free Press had hired her as a suburban editor. Obviously she’d managed to tap-dance around her departure from the Gazette, and perhaps even induced Doppler to give her a positive evaluation. I tried to sound pleased about her good fortune, but her success only reminded me I hadn’t even looked for a job, let alone landed one on a prestigious newspaper. When Rachel asked how my search was coming, I told her I had a few irons in the fire (yes, I used those words—forgive me). My spirits rose a notch when she invited me to dinner at her “cute” little apartment on Telegraph Road, but fell sharply three days later when she called to cancel, saying she was still regrouping. Still regrouping? What the hell did that mean? Instead of asking, I got off the phone and sulked.
So Jane and Rachel were also inaccessible. I was so desperate for female company I thought of calling Ellen Drury, despite our head-butting over sex, politics and religion. I liked Ellen for some reason, maybe because she had pluck in addition to her looks. Still, I never got past the thinking stage of calling her.
And then there was Amanda Fontaine. Or more precisely, there wasn’t Amanda Fontaine, mainly because I hadn’t called her. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I felt I had nothing to offer her, even as a friend. Or maybe I was simply being me and not doing something I should do for reasons known only to the gods, if to them.
These were my thoughts as I drove to The Cottonpicker, so by the time I arrived I was more than ready for a drink. And yet I wasn’t through being demoralized. At the far end of the bar, where Wonderman and I usually encamped, a pair of elderly squatters had usurped our space. And behind the bar, where The Mountain normally held sway, a skinny molehill had replaced him. Was nothing permanent, let alone sacred, in this world?
I thought maybe the answer would come to me after a drink or two, so I parked mid-bar and ordered a bourbon straight up. Then two more after that. To no effect.
Now I was even more on edge, deserted by Jim Beam as well as all my other friends. Persistent if nothing else, I ordered a couple more drinks, and then a couple more after that and these finally rewarded me with that priceless glow. Good old JB. And shame on me for my lack of trust.
I’d no sooner finished scolding myself when a blast from the past came strutting through the door, peacock-proud and gaudy as ever in a maroon suit, amber shirt and auburn tie. But Switch too had changed, or at least his staff had. Flanking him now were three women instead of two, each wearing a yellow dress instead of red (and, in case you’re wondering, Lola May wasn’t among them).
The foursome headed for the bar and seated themselves a few stools away on my portside. While my favorite pimp ordered drinks, the nearest Yellow Dress swiveled round and gave me one of those smiles I ordinarily reveled in. But she’d caught me feeling high and low at the same time so the best I could do was frown.
Unfazed, she got up, slunk over and sat on the stool next to me. Short and thin, she was a perfect match for yours truly. Too bad I truly wasn’t up for her charms.
“How yuh doin’?” she asked.
“Doin’,” I said.
“I’m Leesha.”
“I’m Clark Kent.”
“Huh. That name sound familiar.”
“You may’ve read about me in the papers. I leaped the Penobscot Building in a single bound last week.”
“You don’t say. Well, I been readin’ ’bout that Viet war, but I ain’t seen nothin’ ’bout no one leapin’ over a buildin’.” Leesha turned to face me and fussed at a pant cuff with one of her heels. “I do believe you teasin’ me.” Her second smile of the evening, as bright as her dress, said she didn’t mind..
I shook out a Lucky and played the gentleman by offering her one. She accepted and cupped my hand as I lit her up. She then inhaled and, adding a new wrinkle to seduction, blew smoke in my face.
“What choo thinkin’?” Leesha asked.
“I don’t think anymore. Gave it up for Lent.”
She stared at me blankly, then grinned and grabbed my crotch. Ungratefully, I removed her hand. She tried again and once more I proved unappreciative. She pivoted and met my gaze in the mirror behind the bar. “Whatsa matter, white boy? You too good for some prime black ass?”
I figured no explanation would satisfy her, so I just sipped my drink instead of answering.
Not ready to surrender yet, Leesha held my eyes in the mirror while returning her hand to my crotch, this time massaging it.
Normally that would have shattered my defenses, but tonight an ocean of booze and a river of blues drowned what little sense I had left, so instead of enjoying the massage I watched helplessly as my hand shot out and knocked the masseuse off her perch.
After landing on her prime black ass, Leesha just lay there looking dazed, confused and maybe a little embarrassed by how much of her showed below her hiked-up dress.
I immediately felt remorseful, but before I could apologize and give the lady a hand a blur yanked me off my stool, backed me against the bar and, while he was at it, rammed a knee into the very area that had so attracted Leesha. I doubled over, but my assailant quickly pulled me upright, then laid a blade against my jugular while delivering a character analysis and policy statement.
“Dumbass cocksucking motherfucker, you fuck with my girls, you fuck with me, and no one fuck with the Switch.”
But instead of slitting my throat, he transferred the blade to my left cheek and took his time drawing a diagonal line down it (to match his own?), after which he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 45
